In Parentheses
by forthecoast
Summary: She thinks 'accident' is the worst euphemism of them all. - Lisbon, then and now.


**Title:** In Parentheses  
**Rating:** T  
**Disclaimer:** I hear there's a nice bridge in Brooklyn for sale, too.  
**Category:** Lisbon, Jane-ish  
**Spoilers:** Through 2x23  
**Summary:** She thinks _'accident'_ is the worst euphemism of them all.

**Author's Note:** This fic is an exercise in my late night crazy. Started it last night at about 3am, finished it up this afternoon on the subway. Trust me, you do not want to see the original handwritten draft. Title by Charlotte Martin.

Written for the JF May challenge: empty promises. Thanks to Yana for giving this a quick once-over before the deadline passed.

xxxxx

_for a lonely soul_  
_you're having such a nice time_  
-Keane

xxxxx

She is covered in blood.

The blinding lights, the wailing of brakes, the screeching of metal. The moment of impact; then, everything goes quiet.

She doesn't hear the sirens.

Her father holds her hand; he isn't afraid of the blood. He says, _it's going to be fine. Trust me._ He's shaking as he speaks, but her hand is warm and safe in his, so she believes him. Her smallest brother latches himself to her side, and she sits in the waiting room, counting the seconds as life begins to pass her by.

Two men approach; one dressed in black, the other covered in red. The chaplain says, _God be with you_.

The doctor simply says, _I'm sorry_.

xxx

Jane is lying to her, and she knows it. He's been lying to her from the minute they found him, bound in saran wrap on the floor, like a scene from a D-list horror film.

How fitting.

She's been lying to him, too. Well, not so much lying as keeping her own knowledge from him, but her mother would have given her a lecture about sins of omission, sins of commission. Her mother isn't around to give those lectures anymore, though, so she keeps on as she has been.

She knows about the poem. If he realizes, he never lets on.

He hasn't used her couch in weeks, been absent even more than he's been vacant, and even his most preposterous scheme doesn't have the muscle to warrant so much as a reprimand. She's never seen him quite so empty before.

He sleeps, tense and fitful, on his own couch, one day when he thinks everyone else is gone for the afternoon. She wanders back in, searching for some file or interview notes or anything to occupy her restless mind, when she notices him.

His first mistake was assuming that she had left, although it doesn't surprise her. He's been off his game for too long now.

She approaches him, reckless and cautious all at once, when she hears him mumbling in his sleep. She places his lines immediately; once upon a time, she toyed with an English minor in college. Ironically - _or not_ - Blake had always been among her favorites.

Distractions all but forgotten, she leaves the office and heads to the library. In her office, as she passes, she eyes her chess board warily.

_Your move next, Jane,_ she thinks.

So often, he forgets that she can play too.

xxx

Her father calls out, and she bites her lip until it bleeds. She welcomes the metallic taste as she swallows, hard.

She's fifteen, and he's drunk again. He's been drunk for years, it seems, but there isn't time for that now. Tommy has Cub Scouts and Charlie has Little League, so she doesn't think twice when she grabs the keys and piles all three of them into the back of their beat-up station wagon. They never replaced the totaled mini van; they only had one driver, anyway.

She parks at the church, tucked away in the deserted corner of the lot, and walks them over.

_My dad dropped us off,_ she lies easily when Charlie's coach asks.

No one ever presses further; it's far easier to see only what you want to see.

They pass an accident on the way home, and she sees cops and medics and body bags. On the side of the road, a young girl clings to her mother; the cops take a man away in handcuffs.

She thinks _'accident'_ is the worst euphemism of them all.

Her father is still drunk when she pulls into the driveway, but he's no longer angry, just sad. She puts her brothers to bed and sits with him as his weary body shakes with sobs. He smells of cheap beer and cigarettes, and she nearly folds under his weight as she helps him up to bed.

_Elizabeth,_ he reaches out for her face, and she pulls away from his touch. She chokes back her own tears as she tells him, emphatically, _no_. Her mother's eyes are both a blessing and a curse.

Her hand grasps the door knob when she hears him, softly, _Oh, Teresa. Teresa, baby, I'm sorry._

Her fists clench; she turns the knob. She's nobody's little girl anymore.

xxx

Kristina Frye turns up two months later, in an abandoned mini van off the side of the highway. Her blood smiles at them on the windshield.

"This car looks like it hasn't seen the light of day since the 80's," Cho says to her, off-handed, when Jane is out of earshot.

"It hasn't."

She thinks, _we used to have one just like this._

xxx

"Teresa!" Michael pleads, desperate. "Teresa, Dad's dead. The funeral is Thursday, and you should be here."

But she's a rookie, only on the job for three months, and she doesn't want to ask for the time off. It's bad enough that she's a woman; she refuses to be seen as weak.

Bosco overhears, and he forces her hand. "It's your family," he urges. "Nothing is more important than that. Not even the job."

He's the first good man she's ever met, so she goes. She sits in the front pew, sandwiched between Charlie and Michael, and listens obediently while the priest spouts lies and the congregation bemoans their tragic loss.

_For you are dust, and to dust you shall return._

"Amen," they say aloud.

_Good riddance_, she answers back.

xxx

She walks into her office to discover her chess pieces littering the floor.

She exhales, heavy; this feels like her final move.

xxx

She stops in her tracks at the sight before her.

It's Mother's Day, and she had been hoping to find some peace and quiet at the office. If she stays at home, she will stare at the phone all day, debating whether or not her brothers even want to hear from her. Misery doesn't always love company, even if her life is just one massive walking cliché.

Her new consultant is seated at her desk, going through her drawers.

She glares at him, exasperated. He obviously doesn't realize how much restraint it takes to keep from hitting him on the spot - or maybe he does.

He speaks first, with a quiet warmth she's never heard before, as he fingers a well-worn photograph she thought she kept hidden. "You look just like your mother," he tells her. "That must be hard for you."

She looks away because she's afraid of what she might find there, and she's heard all that before, anyway.

Nothing ever changes.

xxx

She finds them before the others: one bent over the second, wielding a knife in his hand.

She shoots without hesitating; this time, it really _is_ a D-list horror film. Her team arrives minutes later, and there are sirens everywhere.

They load up the bodies, one into an ambulance and the other into a body bag, and she follows the sirens all the way to the hospital. White knuckles grip at the steering wheel, but all she can see is blood.

In the emergency room, she sees a young girl cling to her mother, crying. The mother comforts her child.

She doesn't wait around for the doctor to say, _I'm sorry._

xxx

_end_

xxx


End file.
